Breathe in Now
by jennybel75
Summary: A post Grave Danger look at the effect nick's experience has on him and Greg


I used to love looking at Nick, seeing his eyes crinkle up when he smiled. Sometimes I'd watch him secretly from across the lab, studying his every movement and committing them to memory. I can describe the features of his face perfectly, which would certainly come in handy if I ever needed to give his description to one of our forensic artists. It'd probably give me away though – you can't describe someone with that level of detail without people wondering why it is you know how many freckles your buddy has on his nose.

Anyway, that's what I _got _from looking at Nick, but it's not what I get anymore. Now it's dirt and ants and pain and fear. I just don't see him at all; I see what might have been, what very nearly was. So, I don't look at Nick any more.

* * *

I'm an emotional kind of guy, anyone who's known me for, say, ten minutes can tell you that. I love people and I connect with them. I can feel their joy and their pain and, in my job, I get more pain than joy. But, hey, I knew that going in.

I dunno, maybe it's because I'm from a big family, but I'm also very tactile. At home people were always touching. You got an A+ on a test? Have a hug. Your football team lost? You got an arm around your shoulder, a quick squeeze and a, "You'll get 'em next time champ."

So, I touch the people I work with, always have. I'll give 'Rick a high five if we wrap a tough case or Sara a hug when she's feeling down. Even Grissom knows how tactile I am – I remember him placing his hand on mine to calm me when they were trying to get me out of that damn box.

But it's Greg I've always really loved touching. Maybe it's the way his eyes go wide, or the slight hitch in his breath when I put my hand on his shoulder. Selfish I know, but I always liked to think he enjoyed it just as much as I did.

It's all changed now though. Ever since I got out of that fucking box Greg won't look at me at all if he can avoid it. Damn, he'll even leave the room when I come in if he can without drawing attention to himself. And it hurts, it hurts worse than I ever imagined it could. I barely see him and we almost never talk. He can't look at me. So, I don't touch Greg anymore.

* * *

God I'm tired, I've barely slept in the last who knows how long 'cos I don't want the dreams that come with it. So instead of giving in to the nightmares, I'm sitting here in the DNA lab trying to run the samples from my current case, but I can't concentrate. You see, along with the no sleep and the visions of dirt and death, the shaking has come back. My hands just won't stop. So far no-one has noticed and even if they had I could write it off as exhaustion I'm sure. But _I_ know that's not what it is. It's helplessness, uselessness and fear. Helplessness at the fact there was nothing I could do to stop him from being taken. Uselessness because everyone else seemed so together, so focused on getting him back and all I did was freeze. And the fear. The fear that I could lose him again so easily and the fear of what I'd see in his eyes if I ever told him any of this.

So I sit here in the lab with my shaking hands trying not to think about it. Vainly hoping that it will all just go away. I know I could take the meds the doctor gave me after the explosion and I know they would give me dreamless sleep, but in a perverse way I don't want it. I deserve this, the shaking, the dreams. This is my punishment for not being able to do more, for not stopping all this from happening in the first place. Irrational? Maybe. But, hey, I haven't slept in a while now have I?

* * *

Thank God this shift is over, I've just pulled a not quite double, the first since I've been back. But we got the bastard, so that takes the edge off the exhaustion.

Cath and Warrick want to go for breakfast to celebrate, but I tell them I'm beat and just want to get some shut-eye. They seem to understand, in fact, they look pretty pleased that it'll just be the two of them. I wonder what exactly _is_ going on there.

On my way to the locker room I walk past the DNA lab and notice Greg sitting in there, staring off into space. He doesn't see me, of course, he never does any more. He looks so preoccupied and so drained. I'm worried about him, it's like the spark that made him Greggo is gone. Fighting the urge to go in and ask him if he's okay, I head on into the locker room for a quick shower and change of clothes before going home.

I'm still thinking about Greg twenty minutes later when I come back out of the locker room, wondering if I can get him to talk to me like he used to. I figure that he's probably headed off home by now though, so it's a bit of a surprise to find him still in the DNA lab, sitting exactly as he was before. I wouldn't have thought he'd even moved, except that he's now staring at his hands and not at some indeterminate spot on the wall.

I've always loved Greg's hands; they've got long strong fingers which look like they should be playing a piano instead of working a crime scene. So, figuring any excuse is a good excuse, I look at his hands too wondering what he sees.

Shit. They're shaking. Badly. I haven't seen them shake like this since a couple of months after the explosion. Damn it. I knew something wasn't right, hasn't been right for weeks now. Before I know what I'm doing I fling open the door to the DNA lab and march right up to him.

"Greg, man, what the hell is going on with your hands?"

* * *

Shit, shit, shit. This is the last fucking thing I need.

"Nothing Nick, just tired that's all. This case has been a bitch." There, that should satisfy him, it's perfectly true after all. God, I wish he'd just go away and leave me alone.

"Bullshit Greg. It's more than that and you know it. Your hands haven't shaken like this since after the explosion."

How does _he_ know how much my hands shake and when?

"G, man, I know there's something wrong. You hide away in here or in trace and Sara says that you never seem to go home, and that's something coming from her. You won't even look at me, let alone talk to me. So, spill. I'm not leaving until you do."

Spill? You want me to tell you what I see when I look at you? That I can't sleep, because when I do I dream of you in that box, except it's not really you, it's your corpse riddled with worms and maggots? You want me to tell you that? No, I didn't think so, so I'll tell you this instead.

"Look, Nick, I'm fine. Seriously man, I'll be good once I get this case wrapped."

"You've been sitting in the same place for the last thirty minutes doing nothing. You can't tell me that's fine. Shit, Greg, you can't bottle stuff up. I should know, I've talked to enough people in the last couple of months to know it helps. Talk to me, let me help you."

Fuck. He's putting his hands over mine, holding them still – does he even know what that does to me? Of course not, he's just being Nick.

I've got to get out of here.

* * *

I can't believe it. He pushed me, actually shoved me, so he could escape. That's just not something Greg would do. Or, at least, I thought it wasn't. Shit, where is he? Why does he need to get away from me so badly?

I take off down the hall in the same direction he went, towards the parking lot, hoping I can catch him before he does something really dumb like get in his car and drive. He's in no condition to do that.

Slamming open the door, I already know I'm too late. I heard the revving engine and screech of tires before I even got to the exit. Fuckshitdamn. Where would he go? I know where I'd go, straight home, hunker down and try to shut the whole goddam world out. Okay, well that's as a good a place as any to start.

Dialling his cell with one hand and trying to negotiate the traffic on the Strip with the other isn't the easiest thing I've ever done, or the smartest. My call goes straight through to his voicemail. I throw the stupid phone on the passenger seat and try to concentrate on getting to his apartment in one piece.

Running through my mind are all the times in the last month or so when I could have, should have, talked to him. I knew something was wrong, fuck, why didn't I ask sooner? What could be so bad to make his hands shake like that? To make him so desperate to get away from me? Bottom line, what was I so afraid I'd hear?

No, Nicky, don't start that. I know that the "what-if?" game doesn't work; I've played it enough times in the past. What if my parents hadn't gone out that night? What if I'd realised that Nigel Crane was stalking me. No. Reactive, not proactive and I really need to take a chance right now, need to make the first move and find out… God, I hope I'm not too late.

Thank God, his car's there in the lot. I jump out of my car and race up to the building, taking the stairs to his porch two at a time until I'm outside his door, pounding on it for all I'm worth.

"Greg, open up. I know you're in there. Greg, talk to me."

Great, now the neighbours are looking at me out their window door like they're gonna call the cops.

"Greg, open the God damned door."

* * *

Thank god, the noise has finally stopped. I'm sitting on the sofa, curled up with one of the cushions staring at the bottle of Xanax on the table in front of me. I know I should take a couple and sleep, 'cos sleep's healing right?

Why did I run? Ha. It was fight or flight and I took the flight option. If I'd stayed there one second longer, with him looking at me like that, God…

Keys? What the f–?

I look up and in the doorway is the last person, the only person, I want to set eyes on right now.

"Nick. Where the fuck did you get my keys?"

He comes towards me, an expression on his face that I've never seen before.

"I'm a CSI Greg, remember? I'm trained to look for hidden things, although I gotta say – the pot plant? Pretty obvious."

Shit. I'd forgotten about the spare keys. I left them there the last time I was away, just in case the neighbours needed to get in for some reason.

"Right. Look, Nick, just… Just go." I cannot summon the energy anymore. I close my eyes and sigh, curling up tighter around my cushion. Flight is no longer an option for Greg Sanders it seems.

"No. I'm not going anywhere Greg, and I'm not letting you go either. God, look at you. Why can't you just let me in, talk to me? I thought we were friends."

Friends? Ha. If only we were that, Nicky, it'd be easy. But we're not, because ever since I first met you all I wanted to do was slam you up against a wall and shove my tongue down your throat. Make you scream my name while I fuck your brains out. Make you say, I love – No! I can't! It's never going to happen Sanders, why can't you just get that through your thick head?

"Greg?"

No. You do not get to put your hand on my cheek like that. Oh Christ.

"What Nick? What do you want?" I knock Nick's hand away from my face. "Do you want me to tell you what's really wrong?" I can feel the tears prickling beneath my eyelids now, but I'm not going to cry. I can't. I haven't since they found him and if I start now I might not be able to stop. Hurt him, make him go away.

"Look, why don't you just take your damn hero complex and go home. You don't need to save me Nick, _I'm_ not the one who needed saving." No, no, no. I didn't mean for those words to ever come out of my mouth. The tears I've tried so hard to stop aren't paying attention to me any more and I can feel the first one slide down my cheek.

A whisper, "Oh Greg."

Oh fuck.

* * *

He's just sitting there, curled up so tight that he looks small, tears streaming down his face. I can't bear to see him so distraught, in so much pain. Because of me, me and my stupid dumb luck. Sitting down on the sofa I do something that I should have done a long time ago and wrap my arms around him, pulling him in tight against my chest.

"Easy, babe. Sssh, it's okay, I'm okay." I whisper into his hair, rocking him back and forth. "I'm here, it's okay, I'm not going anywhere."

God, he feels so good, so right. Why did I leave it until now to do anything? Because you were shit scared Stokes, that's why. Too afraid of rejection to even take the damn risk in the first place. It was always easier to think that a guy like Greg Sanders would never be into me than find out for sure.

I move my hand back up to his cheek to brush away the tears. His eyes are still closed but his breathing is starting to return to normal. I let my fingers trace the trails the tears have made down his face, stopping when I reach the corner of his mouth.

And then I do something that I've wanted to do since the first day I met him, I lean in and very gently touch my lips to his. I use my tongue to trace along the outline of his bottom lip, softly tasting him, salt and coffee. He moans slightly and opens his mouth in response and I can feel his tongue searching for mine.

Did I say I was trained to look for hidden things? Then how did I miss this? Has he been waiting for me to do something, say something all this time? Fuck, what else have I been missing?

* * *

If I open my eyes I know it'll stop, so I don't. God, I don't ever want it to stop but I need more, so much more. For the first time in days I feel warm, I feel alive. Connect, feel, live. Desperately I reach my hands to his face, breaking the kiss just long enough to whisper, "Nick…please."

I feel him nodding as I assault his lips with mine, teeth clashing. Sucking his tongue into my mouth I push him down onto the sofa, trapping his body under mine. Skin, I need to feel his skin against mine, so I slip my hands around behind him, lifting him just enough to be able to rip his t-shirt off over his head. Pushing him back down, I exhale and risk opening my eyes. Fuck he looks beautiful lying there, face flushed, eyes watching me and panting. Panting for me, for the things I'm doing and am going to do to him.

Unable to resist any longer I run my hands down his neck to his chest, stopping to squeeze his nipple between my thumb and forefinger. Replacing my hand with my mouth I circle my tongue around the hard nub, sucking and licking, eliciting a shuddering moan.

But it's not enough; I need to see him, taste him, all of him, now. My fingers are still shaking as I fumble with his belt buckle, impatience working against me. Finally the loop slips and I drag his jeans and boxers off in one go. God, he's so hard already, I can see the drops of pre-cum glistening at the tip.

Groaning I take his cock into my mouth, and suck hard, finally tasting him. Wrapping one hand around the base I use the other to gently massage his balls. I can feel Nick's hips arching up against me as I suck and lick at the head of his cock. I can hear him whimpering with desire, his breath ragged and catching in his throat.

"Need you, god. Greg, please?"

I release his cock and lick a slow, hot trail back up his body until I'm once again kissing him, thrusting my tongue in and out of his mouth.

"Is that what you want Nicky? You want me to fuck you?" I whisper into his ear, "Do you want my cock in your tight ass? All you have to do is ask."

He opens his eyes and looks at me, gaze intensely dark and I hear a soft "Yes…need you"

Getting up I quickly pull off my shirt and pants and move back down onto the sofa, pushing his legs up and back so I can kneel between them. And then I'm pressing forward into him and it feels better than I'd ever imagined in my wildest dreams. I can feel his muscles tighten rhythmically around me with each thrust, pulling me deeper into him, urging me on. Holding nothing back I know I'm groaning now, babbling incoherent words about needing this, wanting him for so long.

He arches his hips up off the sofa and I can hear him begging, voice breaking, "Harder...Greg…so close, please." And I know what he needs, so I reach down and take his cock in my hand and start to stroke in time with my own thrusts.

I can feel the pressure building in my balls, I'm so very close now. My breathing is getting shallower, mirroring his and I can feel his cock twitching and jumping in my hand. He cries out, a low, broken moan and his release pushes me over the edge to my own. My vision swims and, for a moment, all I can hear is my blood thumping in my ears.

Then his hands are on me, pulling me down, full skin to skin contact.

And I'm crying.

* * *

I reach up and run my hands across his shoulders and down his back, gently tracing the scars there, marvelling at this beautiful, damaged man that I'm holding in my arms at last. It shouldn't have taken so long, taken something like this to finally bring us together, but it has and I am grateful for it. And I know I'll do anything, _be_ anything to make it work.

Pulling him in tighter to my chest, I lean in and whisper into his ear, "So, where do we go from here?"

He looks up at me, dark eyes liquid with tears and whispers brokenly, "I don't know Nicky, I just don't know." And he starts to cry again.

Fin


End file.
